When I was about twelve years old, I watched the animated feature film adaption of Watership Downs. At the end of the movie, I said to myself, “that’s the saddest thing I’ve ever seen.”
Now that I’ve read a hard hitting interview about struggles of balancing life and marriage with being a touring artist, featuring the BLUE FUCKING WIGGLE – in New Idea magazine, no less, with the cover headline “BLUE WIGGLE FIGHTS RUMOURS“.. I have a new saddest thing I’ve ever seen.
My job sucks. That’s not such a big deal, but it does mean that when I finally punch out at eleven p.m. and change, I’m in a hurry to get home, sink a couple of cold ones, maybe throw a porno on.
One of the current spanners in the works is the fact that the road that connects the two highways on my route is currently a construction zone. And has been for the past six months.
As I’m cruising at a not-so-cruisy pace through after my first turnoff tonight, a road crew and two narrow lines of traffic cones appeared at the foot of the hill, and I thought nothing of it as I coasted down to the 40kph construction zone limit.
As I passed the roadcrew, tired and cranky, I noticed one of them giving me a shit-eating grin from the side of the road.
“The fuck are you laughing about, cunt?”, I thought rhetorically. A few seconds before the road lit up behind me. Highway patrol.
What followed was a fairly tense conversation.
“Good evening sir, how are you tonight?”
“Tired.”
(shitting myself.)
“Do you know why you’ve been pulled over?”
“Yeah, I was a little bit over the limit back there, I know.”
(about 50kph over the limit.)
“A little? We had you clocked at 90 back before the hill.”
“90? Really?”
(GPS said 92. Gotta get that fucker calibrated.)
“Have you been drinking tonight?”
“I’ve been working tonight.”
“Where do you work?”
“I’m the night super at [REDACTED]. I think I served you last week.”
(And was probably more of a smart arse then than I am now, for god’s sake do NOT look at the front of the car.)
“Our concern was that you were speeding through a construction zone. You were obviously going too fast to slow down in time for this construction.”
(That’s not the speed. That’s the dangerously worn brake pads.)
“License please… Where do you live currently?”
“Ballajura.”
The cop gives me a blank look, then looks at my license again.
“That’s my mother’s address on there.”
“That’s a fine you know. And the car?”
“Also registered at my mother’s address.”
“That’s also a fine.”
(yeah, so is the shiv concealed in the side pocket of the door. Watch where you point that flashlight, officer.)
“I know. I’m really sorry, my dad was a fireman and I know how many accidents are caused by speed.”
The cop grunts in reply and takes a step back from the car, pointing his light at the back tyres.
“Car alright?”
“Pretty much.”
(if you ignore the non-functional electric windows, the aforementioned brake pressure, the busted corner lamp, the dead rear left indicator, the worn rear tire, the lack of park lights, the blade-less rear window wipers, and the dodgy alternator…)
“Go home and update your address tonight. If you’re involved in an accident, we wouldn’t be able to find you, you know.”
(Kind of the point, officer.)
The policeman looks briefly at what can only be the infringement book in his pocket, tips his hat and trudges back to his car.
What the fuck just happened?
I butt out the cigarette and look out through the car window, over the mountain of crap in the passenger seat. No fucking house numbers, as usual. This is the price I pay for relying too much on my GPS. Finally, I see a number embossed on a building – a halfway house run by the Salvation Army. Great neighbourhood for my stepsister to move into. And I’m halfway down the block from where I need to be.
Ten minutes later, and I’m standing alone in a group of people at least five years younger than me. Rockers, emo kids, loud-mouthed tradies with t-shirt tans. I think to myself, “what the fuck am I doing here?”. Probably the best thing to do at this point is pull out my phone and text my stepsister, who is having a 20th birthday-cum-housewarming. I shoot off a quick message.
“I’m here – out the back.”
“Will be down in a minute 
“
“Make it quick – I’m standing alone like some kind of creepy loser.”
Another ten minutes pass me by and I catch sight of Kate as she stumbles through the hallway towards the back door of her new pad. She sees me and lets out a squeal, throwing herself at me.
“YOU CAME!”
“Told you I would.”
She gives me a kiss on the cheek and detaches herself from me, grabbing my arm and pulling me back towards the yard. “Come and meet my friends.”
Her friends are all louder, drunker, straighter versions of me. I do the round of iron handshakes and cheek-kisses, making sure to give the hotter guys and girls a lingering look as we gravitate towards a table and sofa in the center of the back garden, where Kate plonks herself down, temporarily the center of her own bleary-eyed universe.
“You have to meet my friend Joel.” Her voice drops a few decibels.
“He’s gay. I told him you were bi. He really wants to meet you.”
Inwardly, I groan. I try not to be one to judge, but I’m already inwardly building a picture of Joel. Chubby, eighteen, flamboyant, with a dyed-black fop of hair over his forehead. Without warning, Kate launches herself back to her feet and, finding her sea legs, crab walks her way through the crowd.
“Tom has pills, I’m going to get one on tick for you. Don’t go anywhere.” Seated opposite me, a group of surfers in pastel t-shirts pass around a box of cask wine, which seems to be only thinking stopping their tense discussion from breaking into a fight. The brother of the younger, more aggressive one played mediator while I scanned the scene for an escape route, one hand on the hilt of the knife in my pocket. In my city, drunken brawls turned into small riots, and I’ll be damned if I’m taking a bottle to the face tonight – once was enough.
My assessment of Joel turns out to be frighteningly accurate as he materialises from the house. Almost his first words to me are “Omigod, I’m so drunk.” He pulls out his iPhone (extra gay points) and logs into Manhunt (really? REALLY?). As if in some bizarre sympatico, the dreadlocked DJ in the living room switches to kitsch 70′s disco and R&B – which at least gives us something to talk about besides alcohol, tattoos and how much our home towns sucked. [If you grew up in any city or town in Western Australia that wasn't Perth, you have a 'hometown story'. And parties like this are why we keep them on hand.]
Fast forward an hour. I can’t decide whether I have enough dignity to let the kid know that he’s just a touch too feminine for my tastes, or whether I let him suck my dick in the car and be done with it. I make a bargain with myself as he asks for a ride home – if I get to the front door and he knows how to turn on the charm (or at least the straight-boy posturing), I’ll reciprocate with his coy little game.
We pass Kate on our way to the car and I tell her I’m giving Joel a lift back his place. She smiles conspiratorially and says “really?”
“No, nothin’ like that. He’s drunk and he needs a ride to his joint.”
Kate giggles and rolls her eyes. And goes back to the (admittedly sexy) girl in the red dress curled up on her lap. I fish a smoke out of my pack and pray inwardly that she didn’t catch a bad case of ‘bisexual’ from a towel I borrowed once.
Did I say “coy”? I should be so lucky. We pull up to his house and he says, I quote virtually verbatim, “if you want your dick sucked, you know, I’m down. Just saying. I’m totally down for that.” I think it’s time for a little white lie.
“Bro, I don’t really hook up with guys all that much. And I’m not really in the headspace for sex tonight. I’m gonna bounce and go back to the party.” (close enough on the truth to satiate my conscience.)
Slutty turns to pleading quicker than a bird shits on a fresh washed windscreen, and I actually feel sorry for the kid. Not as sorry as I’d feel for him if he woke up next to me and realised just how impaired his judgment was. I kiss him on the forehead and say “give me your digits, we’ll see how we go some other time.” I get home, change into my trackies and crack open a final beer on the balcony.
A text message arrives on my phone.
“So disappointed.”
That pretty much sums it up, bub.
